


The de la Fère Affair

by WhenBachDropsTheBeat



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Attempt at Humor, M/M, Pranking is a Sin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-22
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-08-06 03:18:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16380398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WhenBachDropsTheBeat/pseuds/WhenBachDropsTheBeat
Summary: Tsk. Athos.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a quick one-shot. While attempting to weave the rest of "The Cat Came Back", this bit of a scene needed to be cleaned off my hard-drive to lessen the myriad of distractions that dwell there while I am trying to complete a piece. :-( Hope you like it - I've got to get back to "The Cat".

The last of the evening’s camp prep had been finished and guard duties assigned.

Porthos decided it was time to check on Athos. The man’s seemingly minor fall from his horse this morning had taken a troubling turn, mere hours after their return from a mission.

He headed toward the makeshift infirmary that Aramis had set up.

Seeing the younger musketeer emerge from the tent nearest his own, Porthos hailed him: “ Aramis! Word has it that Treville will be in camp by tomorrow morning. Has Athos been capable of recalling any of the details of the map of our quarry’s lair?”

Aramis looked a bit wild-eyed. He was pacing outside of the tent that housed their older musketeer brother.

They had just made good their escape from a band of hostile riders, intent on keeping them from completing their part of a mission to find the rebel leader. Athos had hastily, but successfully, memorized a map and details of the scoundrel’s hideout and with the information safely stored in his head, he and his brothers could make sure Treville’s entire company would be dispatched tomorrow to fight the troublemakers and bring an end to the terror they had been wreaking in this district.

The three of them had been in high spirits as they neared camp. A mission accomplished. An adventure awaiting. That all changed when Athos’ horse had suddenly shied and then bucked, sending Athos to the ground.

At first, the incident had seemed minor. Athos had stood up, brushed himself off, and had stubbornly ignored the streak of blood over his right temple. With a wink at Aramis and Porthos, he had vaulted back into the saddle, urging his mount to victory in a race between them back to the camp.

Later, however, after persistently waving off Aramis’ overwrought concerns, tireless attentions and dogged insistence that he may have sustained a head injury, Athos began exhibiting extremely odd behavior.

Alarmed, Aramis was quick to commandeer a cot, a tent and enough bandages, remedies and disinfectants to stock a field infirmary.

Now hours later, Porthos noted the toll that Athos’ sudden turn was taking on their youngest brother as he babbled on.

“I don’t know... Athos just seems... It’s just so odd. So sudden. I know head injuries can be unpredictable, but this... ? He raves still. He alternately tries to kill me because he thinks I am a Spanish spy or tries to bed me because he thinks I am a Spanish countess!”

Porthos smirked, tugging on Aramis’ beard. “So, all this fine, well-tended facial hair on his beloved Spanish countess’ lovely face wasn’t in the least off-putting to him?”

Aramis’ exasperation was evident. “Disturbingly - no. I just spent most of his waking hours arguing with him about the uselessness of invoking his _droit de noblesse_ to legitimize his madman claims on my virginity.”

“Oh Dear! Poor Athos! He’s going to be deeply disappointed when you are over-ruled in the Courts, and he’s won you to his bed, don’t you think?”

“Very funny, Porthos. See how you have made me absolutely swoon with your levity!” Aramis said sardonically. “Perhaps I should make YOU tend to his bandages and ravings. Do you know he has already run out four of the other caretakers that I have begged - then ordered - then bribed - to tend to him because he is exhausting me! He sends them all running from his tent, bellowing demands for the return of the ‘black-eyed Spaniard with the hair like silk and the teeth like pearls’…”

“Oh, now! There’s yer problem! Wherever are you going to find a Spaniard like that?”

Aramis’ jaw clenched. “Again - very funny, Porthos. You must find your own company so damnably amusing, big man.”

”Well, if he’s howling after _your_ virginity, then I know for sure he’s outta his head!”

“Well, it’s evident his unfortunate headlong tumble from his horse has caused an equally unfortunate holocaust of useful brain matter,” grumbled Aramis. “Treville will be here soon, and instead of being concerned about recalling the map he had committed to memory, Athos is more concerned with whether he should kill me or kiss me!”

“Still…,” Porthos said slowly, scratching his bearded chin as he mused about Athos’ uncharacteristic behavior. “He has demonstrated sense enough to chase after you, pretty man. In either case.”

“I’d rather he turned his attentions elsewhere in the course of his recovery.” Aramis huffed.

He abandoned his complaints just long enough to tug impatiently at his shirt. Porthos noticed the garment was grievously misaligned over his younger brother’s slender torso and raised a questioning eyebrow at his fellow musketeer. With a final growl of frustration, Aramis tucked as much fabric as he could commandeer and shoved it firmly into his trousers. “I was just changing the bandage over his head wound, and he took advantage of my disadvantaged circumstances and my inopportune body position to tweak my nipples!”

He had drawn one arm defensively over his chest as he indignantly recounted the incident, causing Porthos to roar with laughter. “Seems to me, it was Brother Athos’ choice to decide whether your position was inopportune or not!”

Aramis snapped, “I am glad you are so amused by my trials. Perhaps you should stay with me as I am forced to attend to him so that you can defend me from his overwhelming and persistent ardor.”

“Defend you! I’d rather watch!”

Porthos guffawed, swept him up in a bear hug - still laughing - and dropped the bone-weary Aramis at the entrance flap to Athos’ tent. “Nighty-night, Countess Cupcake,” he roared as he walked away toward his own tent.

~~~~~~  
Porthos looked up from the early morning campfire when he heard water being thrown from a basin, somewhere near Athos’ tent.

When he saw Aramis, still looking anxious but now much, much more bedraggled, he got up and strolled over to the tent.

“G’mornin’, Brother! I don’t think I need to ask how your night went, but how’d our brother Athos fare?”

“He spent the better part of the night crooning ancient love poems to me in Greek, and then if I dared nod off, he would reach over and inappropriately massage my thigh, repeating those damned poems - only now, in Latin!”

“And…?” Porthos encouraged the telling of the tale, his bright broad smile already lit up in salacious anticipation.

Aramis mopped his face with a wet cloth and tossed it into a nearby bucket with all the energetic annoyance he could still muster. “He needs to work on his conjugations,” he sniffed a bit arrogantly. “Honest to God! What woman would give serious thought to such a suitor?”

“I think I can hear him. Did you leave him in there _conjugatin’_ all by himself, or is there someone in there with him?”

“Captain Treville arrived in camp a short while ago. He’s been in there with Athos for a bit - as useless as that may be,” Aramis said wearily.

He was tired. It had been a long night fending off ardor and advances from their injured brother, never mind the show of uncommonly piss-poor Latin. Evidence enough of Athos’ severe head injury, Aramis decided. “I warned the captain he has been out of his head for the past 24 hours - leaving out all the finer details of his non-stop persecutions and/or pursuits of me, of course.”

“Of course,” Porthos said, nodding somberly for Aramis’ benefit. He secretly wondered if Treville would have found the entire story gut-busting hilarious, though, if the retrieval of that map - as well as the return of Athos’ noble sensibilities - hadn’t hung in the balance.

“Still…” Aramis’ thoughtful expression made Porthos cast him a questioning look.  
“There were several times in the throes of this little contest with Athos that I wondered if he was just... having me on.”

They both looked up when Treville stepped out of the tent, grim-faced as usual and intent upon a scrap of paper he held in his hand.

Aramis and Porthos glanced at each other in surprise. Even from a few steps away, they could see it was a freshly drawn, properly executed map. With a long list of directives - written in Athos’ own elegant script.

How …?

Striding past the two dumbfounded musketeers, Treville did not look up from his intense study of the map he had in his hand as he said, “ You, Porthos - with me. Saddle up. We ride to collect our prize.”

Suddenly, he stopped and took a step back toward the pair. He leaned in toward Aramis, nearly nose to nose. Eyes grave.

”As for you - ‘ _Countess Cupcake’_ \- Brush your hair and freshen up. The Comte de la Fère awaits your presence within.”


	2. The Rise of The Siren Of Seville

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, Enigma. You were right. All that monkey business in the tent needed to be revealed. Aramis should have his justice. Athos should have his... wish?

Aramis’ eyes narrowed as he watched Porthos walk away with the captain. His big brother was still looking back at him and laughing. He felt a flush of indignation rise in his face. Athos’ little ‘play of passion’ with Aramis was sure to be the talk of the campfires tonight when Porthos returned.

This would not stand.

He looked over at the entrance to Athos’ tent. So Athos wants his Spanish Countess, does he? Who am I to deny my brother’s wish?

With an impish glint in his eye, Aramis set off to brush his hair and freshen up like a good soldier - just as he had been ordered. He began to imagine a different ending to Athos’ ‘play of passion’.

_~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~_

Athos hurried to re-arrange himself on his comfortable cot when he heard Aramis approaching the tent. By the time, he heard the flap of the tent open and quietly fall back into place, he had successfully straightened the makeshift bandage on his head, closed his eyes and diligently replaced the cool, damp cloth that Aramis had fussily placed over his forehead just moments before Captain Treville's arrival.

He had to admit to feeling a bit of guilt for continuing this elaborate prank on his beloved, but oft-exasperating, brother.

This was certainly NOT Athos' style. This kind of play was too often the purview of brother Porthos. Perhaps the big man was wearing off on him; he had to admit he was having fun trifling with his handsome friend. 

“Ah! Is that you, my Cordoban Beauty? My Toledo Temptress? My darling Maiden of Madrid? Countess! I have missed you! In your absence I have been bedeviled by strange company and could only think of having you here at my side to distract me from that man’s officious hectoring! Where have you been, _mon cher_?”

 

“Forgive me, _mi señor_ , for abandoning you. Pity that I missed the fellow. Was he a Frenchman? You know I would have kept you safe from all this Frankish _mischief_ that surrounds us.”

 

_What? Oh-oh._

 

There had been far too much emphasis on ‘Frankish mischief’. And Aramis had addressed him as “My Lord”! In Spanish, no less.

 

_Has my deception been revealed at last?_

 

Something else in Aramis’ too-smooth words gave Athos brief pause, however.

He had detected a strange change in tone in the musketeer’s voice. What was that about?

 

Was this a sign of a sudden capitulation on Aramis’ part? Certainly the anxiety and feverish frenzy that Athos had playfully built and stoked throughout the night like a carefully tended fire in the unsuspecting man was gone.

 

Maybe the fresh air of morning had brought him to his senses? Maybe the fortifying staple of a breakfast gruel had convinced him he had finally wearied of nursing a loony bent on seducing him while in the throes of madness? What did this new attitude mean?

 

There was a far more disturbing distraction, though, and Athos was unable to free himself of it. What was that _enticing new_ timbre in his brother’s voice that he thought he had detected? He had to admit: the delicate sound of ’Forgive me, _mi señor_ , _’_  had fallen on his ear like music, with a surprising warmth. It was causing an odd flip, a faint tickle of pleasure, in the pit of his stomach, as well.

 

Was he imagining it?

 

This is Aramis, he reminded himself. The man’s charms were the stuff of legend. For all the years he had known the man, he had thought of them as only that - _legend_.

 

Mere myth. Simple stories. Tavern tales. Campfire concoctions.

 

“ _Mi ser querido_ ,” purred that soft voice again. It was closer this time.

 

_I should really open my eyes_ , he thought.

 

“You are suddenly so quiet, _cariño_. Are you feeling well?” There was a brush of ... something ... light as air... enough to move one of his own dark curls against one ear, tickling it and sending a shock of sensation down along his jaw. That was followed by a whisper of hot breath and a wet teasing lick along the edge of his ear that sent another jolt of sensation straight to his groin.

 

He really MUST open his eyes.

 

He groaned, masking the eruption of sensations in his body by pretending to be over-taxed with the exertion of removing the cool, dampened cloth that he had carefully replaced over his forehead and eyes after Captain Treville had left the tent.

 

Perhaps he should have ended the charade with Treville’s visit, but frankly, he had enjoyed the time spent bedeviling his overly-attentive attendant. Treville, himself - once he was assured of a predicted good outcome for the final part of their mission - had seemed amused with Athos’ odd plot to harry the marksman.

 

“Just make sure you don’t get yourself shot, skewered or otherwise harmed with this foolishness,” Treville had advised with a frown, then a wink, as he took his leave with all the information he needed from Athos.

 

If only Aramis hadn’t been so irritatingly insistent that Athos’ minor fall from his horse could have caused a head injury. After two hours of non-stop worrying and unwanted attention from his younger brother in arms, Athos had simply decided that he would give Aramis exactly what he was looking for.

 

And a bit more.

 

“Where are you, my Barcelonian Beauty?” He blinked and looked around the dim interior of the tent. He was beginning to earnestly believe there was little wisdom in continuing this joke on Aramis.

 

He could hear him moving about, but seemed unable to find him within the tent, even as small as it was. He twisted his head toward a sylph-like shadow and then twisted sharply back to see Aramis calmly settling beside him with a bible and his rosary piously held in one slender hand.

 

_Did he just...? How...?_

 

“Athos? Are you all right?”

 

Aramis’ other hand was moving toward Athos’ own, but Athos snapped his away. He was developing a peculiar fear of what actual contact might create in the midst of all this oddness. _What’s wrong with me?_

 

He needed a moment; his senses were beginning to slowly reel out of his control. He looked back to where he had seen the shadow, his mind now recalling it as a sloe-eyed beauty. Red lips, porcelain skin, fine-boned features, dark curling hair.

 

_She looked so hauntingly familiar_ , he thought, even though he knew it was madness to think he had seen such detail with a simple glance. It was only a mere suggestion of a shadow, after all. Perhaps someone had passed by, outside of the tent.

 

“Athos... Querido.”

 

It was no use. That seductive tone was back in Aramis’ voice. And when the man spoke his pitch perfect Spanish, the effect multiplied exponentially. He rolled his eyes up to Aramis’ radiantly smiling face. Was there just a hint of slyness in those dark eyes?

 

“If you are so certain of your deep feelings for your Spanish Countess, _mi amor_ , we must pray together for blessings upon...”

 

“Oh no, no, no,” Athos chided with a wag of his finger at his lovely bedside companion.“My Valencian Venus, as much as I would welcome the light of God shining so approvingly on our passion, I don’t think I...”

 

“But, _mi amor_ , my country, _España_ , is very religious! You must prove your love for me in front of God ~ Please, _querido_ , let me take your hand. We will pray together so I may be assured that God will smile upon our love. Only then can I give myself over to your relentless demands.”

 

Athos groaned. How had he have so grievously miscalculated the outcome of this harmless little prank? Perhaps he had woefully underestimated his brother's uncanny _other_ talents.  And now...! Calling God into the center of this charade certainly was a sign he had taken this pretense a bit farther than he intended. It also might be one of the signs of The Apocalypse. 

 

Yet, he could not deny the silken warmth that the slight touch of Aramis’ long fingers twining in his own was sending up his arm.

 

Maybe just one little prayer wouldn’t bring on the Four Horsemen...

_Perhaps a prayer for forgiveness, dear God?_

He was appalled to find he really liked hearing the hypnotic hum of Aramis’ voice in his head. This also surprised him. He couldn’t recall feeling this affection for the mere _sound_ of Aramis before. Not at the taverns. Not in the garrison. Not around countless campfires.

 

And this closeness. And the odd sensations that lit up in him with a mere touch from Aramis.

 

Why was this happening?

 

And OH! Just now... Had Aramis increased the pressure of that secretive touch? Athos was feeling warmth spread in his chest, a glowing, ember-like feeling.

 

He was puzzled when he realized he was smiling.

 

Beside him, the ebony-eyed Spanish Countess was smiling, too. The prayers falling from those red, red lips had slipped into a symphony of Spanish in his mind. He was aware only of the enchanting music of the language.

 

Athos frowned. When had _prayers_ become a variant of standard operational seductions?

 

Aramis! Bastard! He had turned on that seduction charm. It wasn’t a myth!

 

Dammit.

 

Athos pulled his hand from Aramis’ as if he had just realized he had been holding a hot cinder. Pulling himself up to a sitting position and finding himself bearded chin to bearded chin with his ‘countess’, Athos glared into dark eyes that were returning his glare with a wicked confidence.

 

“When did you realize?” Athos asked simply.

 

“Since I am still holding my bible and rosary, _brother_ , I am forced to tell you the most immediate truth: I admit that I knew you had played me for a fool as soon as I had seen the map in Treville’s hands - when he left the tent earlier,” Aramis answered with an offended pout. “But, just as truthfully, I was more than suspicious when you kept assaulting me with that god-awful Latin throughout the night. A sacrilege for which you still must be punished.”

 

Athos gave him a cheeky smile. “So true was your love for me that you did not smother me right then and there?”

 

“I did not - tempted, though I was,” Aramis murmured. Then he softened his voice again and began to move closer. “So true was my love.”

 

Athos shivered. His eyes widened. The seduction charm! Aramis still had command of it!

 

_Dear God, make him stop._

 

He felt the press of those red lips on his. How hot they were!

 

_Dear God, what is this madness? Perhaps I truly am concussed!_

 

His breath was being stolen away by this Aramis creature. He felt himself being pressed back down to his bed, the rosary rolling between them, the Bible being cast reverently to the abandoned bedside stool. Somewhere, a basin of water was upended and a stack of bandages, too, made a faint sound as they tumbled from wherever they had been perched.

 

_God! Are you there? It’s me! Athos!_

 

Dammit all. He should have made more of an effort at this prayer thing. Perhaps he could have earned a bit more notice and response from the heavenly hosts.

 

“ _Mi guapo Conde de la Fère_ ”If that sensuous coo was God answering him, then God sounded alarmingly like Aramis.

 

Athos felt himself yielding. He still had a few of his wits, allowing him to be surprised at how willing he was to follow Aramis’ lead into temptation.It was his own fault, he supposed. He had, after all, dared to toy with Aramis and his Legend.

 

Had he said that aloud?

 

Distantly, he heard Aramis laughing, so deep and low he felt its pleasant shudder in his own body, which only served to set fire to those overly warms embers in his chest again.

 

“Say it again, Athos. Say it, _mi querido_. Call me your _Siren of Seville_ again.”


End file.
